‘I keep expecting him to come home,’ she whispered as Bartholomew crouched next to her. Michael busied himself by taking a broom handle to the flue in the roof, in an attempt to clear some of the choking pall that rose from the peat faggots in the hearth. ‘I think I hear him chatting outside with his customers, and that he will come in to tell me the gossip.’ Her eyes filled with tears.
‘How is your chest?’ asked Bartholomew, not knowing what to say, so taking refuge in practical matters. ‘Does it still ache when you breathe?’
‘They say he was drunk when he murdered my husband. Thomas Mortimer, I mean. Is it true, Doctor? Did he ride him down as though he was a dog, and then laugh at the damage he had done?’
‘He did not laugh,’ replied Bartholomew truthfully.
‘But he did not cry, either,’ she said bitterly. ‘He just lied to protect himself. Sheriff Tulyet tells me that he cannot charge him with my husband’s murder, because Bosel is dead. Mortimer has not even said he is sorry.’
She turned away, tears leaving silvery trails in the soot that dusted her cheeks. Bartholomew took her hand and held it while she sobbed. When she quietened, he helped her to sit up and drink a syrup of angelica he had prepared the previous evening, which he thought would soothe the racking cough that left her gasping for breath. Then he eased her under the covers again, and sat with her while Michael sang soft, haunting ballads. Eventually, she dozed.
Michael was silent when they left, closing the door gently, so it would not wake her. Bartholomew took a deep breath, wondering whether he would ever become inured to some aspects of life as a physician. He glanced around, in the hope that one of his students might be nearby, because he wanted someone to be with her when she woke again. He was in luck: Quenhyth was tugging insistently at the sleeve of Cheney the spicer, while informing him that his handwriting was the best in Michaelhouse, and that his rates for writing trade agreements were very low. Quenhyth was usually to be found at his studies, and Bartholomew had seldom seen him doing anything else. He listened with interest to the conversation that followed.
‘I do not need another clerk,’ snapped Cheney. ‘I already have Redmeadow.’
‘But he steals,’ said Quenhyth. ‘So, if you notice items missing, and you require a clerk whose honesty is beyond question, you will know where to come. To me.’
‘All the University’s scribes steal,’ said Cheney matter-of-factly. ‘It is a grim reality – and the reason why no sensible merchant ever leaves one unattended in his home or near anything valuable.’
‘Oh,’ said Quenhyth, deflated. ‘Well, I am no thief, I promise you, Master Cheney. My father is a wealthy merchant, just like you, and he taught me right from wrong.’
‘If he is wealthy, then why are you scribing for pennies?’ asked Cheney, not unreasonably.
‘He pays my fees and board,’ explained Quenhyth. ‘But the food has recently become inedible at Michaelhouse, and we are all obliged to buy victuals from elsewhere. That requires money.’
‘True,’ muttered Michael, watching the spicer waddle down the street, leaving a disconsolate Quenhyth behind him. ‘Buying supplies to supplement what Michaelhouse provides has become a necessity of late. We have friends who give us meals – do not look startled, Matt. You have dined out at least four times recently – but Quenhyth has not, and must win his victuals by scribing instead.’
‘Have you spoken to Wynewyk about this?’ asked Bartholomew, hoping Quenhyth did not decide to practise medicine for money if he could not secure work by writing.
‘He says food prices are increasing – they always do at the end of winter – so we must economise.’ Michael was disgusted. ‘The words “economise” and “food” should never be used in the same sentence. They are anathema to each other, like “small” and “portion”.’
Bartholomew waved to catch Quenhyth’s attention, and told the student he wanted him or Redmeadow to visit Mistress Lenne three times a day until her son arrived from Thetford. Quenhyth nodded, eager to accept the responsibility. He took parchment and a pen from his scrip and wrote down his teacher’s instructions, doing so flamboyantly, in the hope that his literary skills might attract customers.
‘None of this is fair,’ said Michael bitterly, when Quenhyth had gone. The visit to Mistress Lenne had distressed the monk. ‘Look what Thomas Mortimer has done! He killed two people with his careless driving, because that old woman will not last long now her husband is gone. He was lucky Isnard is built like an ox, or there might have been three.’
‘Isnard is recovering well,’ said Bartholomew, wanting to say something to cheer him. ‘He is pestering Robert de Blaston to finish carving his new false leg. When he has mastered its use – which he anticipates will only be a matter of an hour or two – he plans to visit Mortimer.’
‘Then thank God wooden legs take time to make,’ said Michael fervently. ‘Isnard has a black temper, and Mortimer is likely to enrage him with his uncaring attitude. But we should visit Gonville before any more time passes. We must resolve this business with Bottisham and Deschalers, and—’
‘There he is,’ interrupted Bartholomew, pointing to where Thomas Mortimer lurched through the market stalls with various packets and parcels in his arms. One fell, and an urchin had scampered forward and stolen it before his wine-addled brain had even registered that it had dropped. ‘He is drunk again, and it is barely past dawn.’
Michael’s expression turned into something dangerous. ‘His brother Constantine is with him. Shall we ask them why they have inflicted such suffering on our town with the careless driving of carts and the buying of pardons for killers?’
‘I do not think that is a good idea, Brother,’ said Bartholomew, thinking it was likely to instigate a brawl. Many scholars were indignant about what had happened to a member of a University choir, and might well grab the opportunity to mete out justice with their fists. Meanwhile, the Mortimer clan employed a large number of apprentices, all of whom would fight to protect their masters’ good name.
But Michael was not listening. He strode up to the Mortimer brothers and beamed falsely at them. Bartholomew’s heart sank, and he saw he should not have taken the soft-hearted monk to visit Mistress Lenne. While Michael liked to give the impression that he was cool and dispassionate, few things enraged him as much as injustice and suffering among the poor. Bartholomew sensed the ensuing confrontation was going to be an unpleasant one.
‘Good morning,’ said Michael, addressing the reeling miller. Thomas Mortimer promptly lost the rest of his parcels and looked down at them with a bemused expression, trying to work out what had gone wrong. ‘Surely it is too early for wine? I have only just had breakfast.’
‘That is from last night,’ said Constantine, snapping his fingers at an apprentice, ordering him to retrieve the fallen items. ‘Thomas has had no wine this morning.’
Constantine the baker was a fighting cock of a man, who had once been notorious for his vicious temper and bullying manners – a smaller version of his brother Thomas. But his son’s exile and the death of his wife Katherine had affected him deeply, and rendered him milder and sadder. He was still loyally devoted to his numerous cousins, aunts and nephews, but he was not quite as pugilistic as he had once been.
‘That makes it all right, then,’ said Michael caustically. ‘It is perfectly natural for a man to imbibe so much wine that he is still drunk after a night in his bed. Still, at least he has the sense not to do his shopping in a cart.’
‘Lenne was an accident,’ said Constantine wearily, as though tired of repeating himself. ‘Everyone makes it sound as though Thomas did it on purpose. He cannot help it if careless peasants stray across the streets without warning.’
‘And if people do not shut up about it, then the town can look elsewhere for money to repair the Great Bridge,’ slurred Mortimer nastily. ‘I am not giving good silver to help a gaggle of ingrates!’
Bartholomew saw that a number of Mortimer apprentices, all wearing disti
nctive mustard-yellow livery, were gathering. He tugged on Michael’s arm, to pull him away. He disliked brawling and, although he was angry enough with Thomas and he would enjoy punching the man, he had no intention of being drawn into a fight in which he was so heavily outnumbered. Michael shook him off.
‘Did you see this “accident” yourself?’ the monk asked archly. Constantine shook his head. ‘Then how do you know what happened? Thomas certainly did not, and he was driving!’
‘We have business at Gonville, Brother,’ Bartholomew whispered urgently, trying again to pull the monk away. ‘We need to exonerate Bottisham from these accusations before there is trouble.’
‘Then tell me why you arranged for Edward to be pardoned,’ ordered Michael, when neither Mortimer responded to his question. He freed his arm firmly enough to make Bartholomew stagger. ‘Why did you want him back, after all he did?’
Constantine flushed and looked down at his feet. ‘Partly because my son’s conviction was a slur on the Mortimer name. And partly because it was my fault that he turned to evil ways – I drove him to crime with my temper. I thought I could make amends by bringing him home.’
‘And that has not happened?’ asked Michael. He grimaced in disgust when Thomas toppled backwards and would have fallen, if his apprentices had not darted forward and caught him.
Constantine shook his head. ‘Edward refuses to live with me. Nor will he resume his baker’s training. His mother would not have been pleased.’
‘She is here, you know,’ said Thomas, his arrogance suddenly replaced by fear. ‘I saw Katherine near the Great Bridge, and she looked at me. She is back from her grave to haunt us. I had to visit the Hand of Valence Marie, and pay a shilling to ask for its protection from her troubled spirit.’
‘He saw Bess,’ explained Constantine, when he saw Michael assume it was the wine speaking. ‘That madwoman who is here to look for her husband. She gave me a turn when I first saw her, too. The likeness between her and my wife is uncanny – even Deschalers commented on it, and he never spoke to me about Katherine. He was always too ashamed for making me a cuckold.’
‘Did Katherine have a younger sister?’ asked Bartholomew, thinking that Deschalers had not been the kind of man to feel shame for enjoying himself with another man’s wife. It seemed more likely that the grocer had never mentioned Katherine because the memory had been too painful for him.
‘Katherine was an only child,’ replied Constantine. ‘She hailed from the Fens, whereas Bess comes from London. Their similarity is coincidence, nothing more. They are not related.’
‘Edward will become a miller, like me,’ rambled Thomas; he had already forgotten the scare ‘Katherine’ had given him. He cast a triumphant look in his brother’s direction, so Bartholomew surmised it was a source of discord between them. ‘And together we shall siphon water away from the King’s Mill until it is dry.’
‘Why would you do that?’ asked Bartholomew, puzzled. ‘There is enough to run both.’
‘There was enough for both, when Thomas was grinding corn,’ explained Constantine. ‘But fulling needs far more water.’
‘So the Millers’ Society can go and hang themselves,’ declared Thomas thickly, trying to fix the physician in his sights. He blinked hard and stood swaying, while his apprentices tensed, ready to catch him again. ‘The scholars of Gonville Hall will see them off. Lawyers are cunning and scholars are cunning. So a scholar–lawyer will be very cunning.’
‘Is that why you hired Gonville?’ asked Michael curiously. ‘Because you think them more sly than the town lawyers?’
‘Well, it is true,’ said Constantine. ‘We cannot lose this case, because the forfeits would be fierce – loss of our mill, heavy fines, legal costs. It does not bear thinking about.’
‘Do you know why one of your Gonville lawyers – Bottisham – should have been with Deschalers at the King’s Mill on Sunday night?’ asked Michael, seizing the opportunity to advance his investigation a little. ‘You heard what happened?’
‘Stabbed, then thrown on to the millstones,’ said Constantine. He shuddered. ‘I have seen mills working, and that would not be a pleasant way to die. But if Bottisham was meeting Deschalers on our behalf, then he said nothing of his plans to us. You must ask Bernarde and his cronies about it. After all, it was in their mill that this tragedy occurred.’
‘What are we going to do about Edward?’ asked Bartholomew when he saw the Mortimers knew – or would reveal – nothing about Bottisham’s death. ‘Even you have no control over your son, and the whole town is waiting for him to do something terrible. We must act before someone is hurt.’
‘But I do not know what to do!’ cried Constantine. His sudden wail startled physician, monk and miller alike. ‘God forgive me! I thought I was doing the right thing when I bought their pardons – Edward asked me to help Thorpe, too, because his father had disowned him. But I did not know how much they had both changed.’
‘He is no longer the malleable boy you knew?’ asked Michael.
‘He is not, and I do not like what he has become. He unnerves me with his vengeful glowers and spiteful comments. If I could go to the King and tell him I had made a mistake, I would. But Edward said he would kill me if I did that.’
‘Did he now?’ asked Michael thoughtfully, wondering whether threats of murder might be sufficient to see the pardons withdrawn.
‘More than once.’ Constantine lowered his voice so his brother would not hear, although Thomas was leaning so heavily against a staggering apprentice that Bartholomew thought he might have passed out. ‘The combination of Thomas’s drinking and Edward’s resentful fury is not a good one. I am afraid: for me, for my bakery, for my brother and for his mill. I shall have to go to the Hand of Valence Marie, and pray for its help.’
‘I doubt that will do any good,’ said Michael bluntly. ‘The best way to ensure no one is hurt is to prevent trouble in the first place. Do you have any idea what Edward and Thorpe might be plotting? If you do, then we may be able to thwart it, and we can rectify this miscarriage of justice that you have brought about.’
‘The Hand will answer our prayers,’ slurred Thomas, struggling over his words as though his tongue belonged to someone else. ‘Young Hufford of Honville Gall has been praying for days for a cure. And he has one.’
‘A cure for what?’ asked Bartholomew warily. He hoped rumours were not about to circulate that the Hand had healing powers, because then the spread of the cult would be unstoppable.
‘For a sore on his mouth,’ explained Constantine.
‘Oh, that,’ said Bartholomew, relieved. ‘It healed naturally – the Hand had nothing to do with it.’
‘Never mind this,’ said Michael impatiently. ‘What about Edward’s plans?’
‘Edward barely speaks to me,’ said Constantine bitterly. ‘And he is destroying our family by making us take sides against each other – brother against brother, cousin against cousin. We were solidly loyal before he arrived, but now we argue all the time. We will lose all our power and influence in the town if we allow our clan to fragment – and then where will we be?’
‘Where indeed?’ mused Michael thoughtfully.
Once Constantine had struggled away with his reeling brother, Bartholomew and Michael fought their way through the Market Square towards Gonville Hall. But Bartholomew found himself reluctant to go, unaccountably afraid he might learn something that would disappoint or shock him about the scholar he had so liked and admired. It would not be the first time an investigation had revealed a seemingly good man to be something rather different, and he realised his work for Michael had turned him from someone naturally trusting to someone uneasy and suspicious. He walked slowly, aware that Michael was matching his reduced pace and was probably assailed with the same concerns.
‘You must be pleased to see your grandmother,’ he said, yawning. He wished he had spent less of the previous night reminiscing with the old lady, and more in his own bed. ‘Were you expecting her?’
Michael smiled fondly. ‘No, but I am not surprised she is here. She played an important role in convicting Edward Mortimer and Thorpe, and she is not a woman who likes loose ends. She came to see for herself what was happening.’
‘It is a pity she did not prevent the pardons from being issued in the first place. From what I hear, the King listens to her and never does anything she believes to be imprudent or wrong.’
‘Unfortunately, she was in Avignon when the matter went to the King’s Bench clerks. She only heard about it when it was too late to do anything. She was not pleased, I can tell you!’
Bartholomew could well imagine, and was wryly amused with himself for feeling safer now the old lady was there. Dame Pelagia was elderly and slight, but her deceptively frail figure concealed a core of steel, a raw and ruthless cunning, and a rather shocking talent for throwing knives. Bartholomew had come to understand Michael’s fondness for intrigue and deception far better once he had met his formidable forebear. He stopped to fiddle with a strap on his boot, knowing it was a deliberate ploy to delay what he was certain was going to be an unpleasant interview at Gonville.
‘What was she doing in Avignon?’ he asked. He had been under the impression that she had retired from her long and distinguished service as the King’s best agent. Then it occurred to him that Bishop Bateman had been poisoned in Avignon.
‘She has always liked France,’ replied Michael, airily vague. ‘And she has spent a good deal of time there in the past. She told me she had a desire to see it again.’
Bartholomew did not respond immediately. England had been at war with France for the past twenty years, and he suspected her sojourns there had been spent implementing plots and intrigues – all designed to harm France and benefit England. He wondered whether the conflict might have ended a good deal sooner, had the likes of Dame Pelagia not been on hand to stir it up.
‘So, who killed Bishop Bateman?’ He glanced up at Michael. ‘It was not her, was it?’
Michael regarded him with astonishment. ‘Of course not! If she had killed anyone, it would have been the French ambassador, who was refusing to listen to Bateman’s terms for peace.’
Bartholomew 10 - The Hand of Justice Page 18